In which Stepfie alienates half her readers.

2008-08-08, 5:23 p.m.

The relentless march of feminists in the 60ï¿½s*, ie before I was born (OK, well, some of it before I was born, whatever!) meant that this afternoon I have had to go out in the front garden and wash my fucking car. Despite having a perfectly good husband who could have been put to use on it.

Actually, thatï¿½s not strictly true as, if he had been a perfectly good husband, he would have come out in the garden and done it for me so I could come indoors and finish off some ladyish activity, like painting my nails or baking scones or lying on the bed, flicking through Harpers Bazaar whilst amusing myself with a selection of buzzing/whirring/rotating battery-operated monoliths (fuck off, Iï¿½m on HOLIDAY!). Instead he came out of the house and said ï¿½Fucking hell, are you feeling alright?ï¿½ before disappearing into the studio, sniggering like a teenage boy who just heard someone say period.

I was so grumpy about the whole damned business that I didnï¿½t even put any car-washing music on. Usually I like to have extra loud accompaniments to my vehicular ablutions, and its usually something I can play air guitar to, or can jump around in a bikini to (all time favourite car-washing song = Wipeout, even tho L says the drums sound like someone falling down the stairs), but today it was just the sound of my resentment going MehMehMeh all the way home.

As the car was fairly heavy on the birdshit adornments, I chose to wash it with something more powerful than a splish of fairy liquid and a chamois leather and was out there for an hour with a scrubbing brush and a bucketful of Lidls All Purpose Kitchen Cleaner, which smells like cherry cola. So, whilst I had no proper music to while away the time, I did have the sodding Kinks beetling around in my brain, with a spirited rendition of their all time classic, Lola, specially re-mixed for grumpy car washing.

Iï¿½m in the garden with a scrubbing brush
Cleaning shit off a Mazda and the stuff smells like cherry cola. C.O.L.A cola

Etc etc etc, for many many verses, all ending in co-co-co-co-coLA and involving use of the poetic terms ï¿½bird-pooï¿½, lazy-arseï¿½, ï¿½freezing cold wet feetï¿½ and ï¿½fucked right offï¿½.

Car-washing aside, I am rather enjoying my time off as it has meant that not only can I go to the cinema, but I can also take long walks up the river and provide you with some spiffing pictures of Merry Olde England. These pictures are pretty much the same ones as I posted that last time I did a diary entry on ï¿½Walking Up the Riverï¿½ but , hey, some of you are new here and may ~~not have diligently sifted through all my archived entries~~ have a life. Canï¿½t really be bothered to do anything clever with them so Iï¿½ll just bung them all up in a big green leafy cluster:

Treac and her friend try to snatch ï¿½silverï¿½ leaves (they were just white on the backs, actually, but they did look silvery when they were blowing in the breeze

Treac and her little friend, looking winsome

Just as an aside, how many open fires would you have to have in your house to need a wood pile THIS BIG? Or maybe its ï¿½New! From Airfix! Build your own Log Cabin! Laura Ingalls Wilder not includedï¿½

Honestly, thatï¿½s just too many logs, isnï¿½t it?

Anyway, had to get back home at a reasonable hour as I had to cook dinner before starting teaching. Had another new pupil start this week ï¿½ the first man Iï¿½ve ever taught (*snort* the first man Iï¿½ve ever taught TO SING, haha, not the first man Iï¿½ve ever tauï¿½.oh, never mind). He seemed to be doing OK and told L afterwards that he thought my lessons were too cheap. So, thatï¿½s three out of three pupils who think they should be paying more. Maybe its time to put my prices up. Trouble is, as a pauper, I find it difficult to judge what is an appropriate amount to pay for what is, really, something of a vanity purchase. I look at what I charge and think, ï¿½fucking hell, I could buy (such and such) with that, these people have more money than sense!ï¿½. For the rest of his entry, I will use Singing Lessons as a unit of currency. Because I can.

Off to jolly old Chigley this morning as Joojï¿½s little Polish friend is off to spend a year in France with her aunt, learning French in Marseilles and generally getting a bit of culture. Naturally, being 12, she is struggling to see how this could be FUCKING BRILLIANT and is just miserable at being away from her pals at Chigley High and bitching cos sheï¿½s heard all French boys are pigs who donï¿½t know how to snog. We bought her a silver bangle (2 singing lessons) as a leaving present.

As weï¿½d already put all our change in the parking machine, we had a bit of time to kill so Jooj and I hit the mall with a vengeance and found a dress (Jooj ï¿½ ï¿½ a Singing Lesson) and shoes (we both got a pair, ï¿½ a lesson each!). Then I got distracted by the trashy underwear and had to have a lecture off my bloody daughter along the lines of ï¿½thatï¿½s not a practical colour, it looks a bit uncomfy, wont it show through your clothes etcï¿½ until I wasnï¿½t really sure who was the mum and who was the child. While she was looking at yet ANOTHER studded belt, I bought these

*sigh* arenï¿½t they splendid? Itchy, scratchy, bows AND ruffles! Lacy, racy and cheap (in more ways than one!). They were already in the sale and then were marked Buy one get one Free, so I got both sets for only ï¿½ a singing lesson! How cool is THAT?

If me and L ever stop sniping at each other (the sound of the wolf banging at the door, doesnï¿½t half dampen ones ardour!) then I shall prance around the bedroom in it like a ï¿½10 hooker (sorry, ï¿½a One Singing Lesson Hookerï¿½ just doesnï¿½t sound right!) and all will be right with the world.

Later

S
X

Rant follows: feel free to skip this bit. Oh, and if you do choose to read it, just bear in mind that this is my diary and I can say whatever I like. You donï¿½t have to agree with me. Iï¿½ve never felt the need to be disrespectful, in comment or note, about stuff I donï¿½t agree with that I read in other peoples diaries, and Iï¿½d appreciate it if youï¿½d do the same. Iï¿½ve nearly deleted the next bit several times already cos I want you all to love me, but, hey, I think Iï¿½m entitled to my opinion.

*I blame every shitty thing I have to do on the feminists (annanotbob, get off that high horse this instant. I donï¿½t want any pro-feminist comments from you, young lady! You know me in real life and you know I only live for sequins and baking!). Cos, if they hadnï¿½t all burned their bras and demanded equal rights and all that stuff, I would be able to stay at home and look after my babies and legitimately NEED to get my hair done properly in a salon and would wear my pinny with pride. And it would be my CHOICE. Equal isnï¿½t the same as ï¿½having to do everything just because you canï¿½, you dozy bints. Equal is ï¿½half-eachï¿½, according to their strengths and abilities.

Consequently, men feel ever more emasculated and wonï¿½t give up their seat on the bus when they see you have four bags of shopping and a tired toddler in tow, for fear of some snake-haired virago screaming ï¿½You patronising cunt! Donï¿½t you belittle me with your outmoded chivalrous bourgeoiseries ï¿½ I am WUMMAN, hear me ROAAAAAARï¿½, when actually, I would say ï¿½I am fucking knackered, see me sit down with smiling gratitude, nice man!ï¿½

You FOUGHT for THAT? Are you fucking MENTAL?

Men donï¿½t help cos they are too frightened of looking patronising, or too pussy-whipped to think they will be of any use. Advertising portrays men as moronic, bumbling incompetents while women are strong and brave and practical and omnipotent. The man stands sheepishly in the background, gurning an apologetic grin, while the woman tuts ruefully and gets on with that unpleasant task that the mere man wasnï¿½t able to accomplish. Feminism made us knackered, guilt-laden, bitter shrews. Thanks a fucking bunch, Germaine.

ï¿½A womanï¿½s right to chooseï¿½ should include something to do with choosing not to open your own jam pots, choosing not to ï¿½juggleï¿½, choosing not to bang your head against a glass ceiling but to go home and make a nice steak pie and wait for your husband to get back from work, choosing not to paint that fence/haul that crap to the dump/wash that shit-covered Mazda but to say, pleasantly ï¿½If you could do that for me, that would be great. Your shirt is ironed, what would you like for tea?ï¿½

If you have to (and as a single parent, I had to, for several years), or you choose to, then fine ï¿½ do it all. But donï¿½t look down your nose at me if sometimes I want to say ï¿½Iï¿½m sorry, Iï¿½ve done enough now. Iï¿½ve done the lions share of the household chores, the child rearing AND the breadwinning and now Iï¿½m going to put on vertiginous heels, do a little cross stitch and say ï¿½thatï¿½s too heavy for me to liftï¿½. You, big strong man, will you help me with that and then I will make a big fuss of you because I will be pleased. And thereï¿½ll be cake.ï¿½

And my ï¿½sistersï¿½ can all go fuck ï¿½emselves.

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